If this is the sound of a band floundering without inspiration, I’ll take it, and so should you. Whenever a band rises to a once restricted plateau, suddenly there’s no excuse to wander down the path sloping into the valley. For Wilco, as they ascended past Summerteeth and Yankee Hotel Foxtrot (pick your own favorite), they were expected to keep going. And A Ghost Is Born was nearly of the same height, yet suddenly the consensus said, “too far.” Then when they “played it safe” with a mostly ordinary batch of summery pop and country rock tunes on 2007’s Sky Blue Sky, the fanbase was split, and fears of settling began to ripple. Now we have the amusingly titled Wilco (The Album), which could be called a retread (no matter the implications of insult or applause you consider with such a remark). So it’s the sort of stuff they do, and more of it. Stale? Not quite, but isn’t more of the same still better than a bad turn?
Wilco (The Album) comes equipped with its own “Wilco (The Song),” though any hint of parodying the conceit of Black Sabbath, Bad Company, et al, either passed by unnoticed or doesn’t exist—simply self-aware goofing off? It also brings along a “Spiders (Kidsmoke)” refresher with “Bull Black Nova” (good for them) and a “Jesus Etc.” spinoff via “Everlasting Everything” (not quite as successful). “You and I” is rather A.M. of them and “Sunny Feeling” feels plucked from Being There. Lots of watered down takes on the lilting pop and sonic experimentalism they fashioned so nicely around the turn of the millennium. It’s Wilco as you love them, usually a little tamer, and spread wide across their storied history. Complain about a lack of startling returns if you like, but it’s not like they advertised something that wasn’t on sale.
There’s room for some shimmering melodies and tinkling fills on subdued but lovely tracks like “Country Disappeared” and “Deeper Down.” They nakedly ape George Harrison on first single “You Never Know” and a low-key Tom Petty is invoked on “I’ll Fight.” Jeff Tweedy’s duet with guest vocalist Feist on “You and I” is far more pristine than it has any right to be. In fact, aside from a few scattered moments (orchestral swell on the closer, pounding keys on “You Never Know”) and the feisty krautrock of “Bull Black Nova,” this is a much gentler and more mature collection for the always-assured band. Some will appreciate such comforts. Others might mourn the absence of grittier vitality. As a headphone record, it will serve, but as one to sing along or warp your little brain to, it sounds a bit too tepid during long stretches.
But (The Album) isn’t going to be remembered as one of the band’s compositional highlights, yet as far as confident and lucid lyricism goes, this one’s a watershed mark. Tweedy’s words have usually had a flair for bland wackiness and general vagueness, but more than ever before, he’s beginning to compile stories and specific philosophies amidst his esoteric arrangements. On “One Wing,” Tweedy sings that he “always knew this would be our fate, this is what happens when we separate, this is what happens to all dead weight eventually,” and continues, “One wing will never fly/Neither yours nor mine/I fear we can only wave goodbye.” He goes another Beatle route (Paul) on “Everything Everlasting,” singing about the emotion of soulmate ideology: “Oh I know this might sound sad/But everything goes both good and the bad/It all adds up and you should be glad/Everlasting love is all you have.” And he turns bleak and paranoid on “Bull Black Nova,” nervously muttering about how, “It’s in my head/There’s blood in the sink/I can’t calm down/I cannot think.” Thanks to the gut reaction to the moody words, Pat Sansone’s incessant piano chime and the rangy, squealing interplay of Tweedy’s and Nels Cline’s guitars, it’s the immediate highlight…and the one most out of place with the rest of the album’s more temperate aesthetic.
Expectations may play a part in your enjoyment of Wilco (The Album). The finesse and growth cultivated during Jay Bennett’s tenure suggested a band eager to push boundaries, but complaints that they’re content to drag their feet are somewhat unfair. We cannot pressure the artists we follow to kowtow to what we want, and if their direction is circular and safe for now (ambling the minivan around block?), so be it. But there aren’t enough subtle hooks in the tender, country-tinged numbers (particularly on the second side) to escape a few lulls and the few moments of inspired arcane guitar grind and richer aural alchemy are poorly integrated into the album as a whole. For less demanding Wilco fans, it will undoubtedly please them (might even the slightly more critical ones, as it did me) but it won’t likely inspire the sort of devotion and furor of their best records.
